Normally, I save these writings for journal entries. But I thought cohesive thoughts require an audience.

I’m tapping my foot against the frame of my twin bed. 

JMSN’s Do U Remember the Time plays soft enough so as not to disturb my sleeping roommate but loud enough to encompass the room in a rhythm of nostalgic longing.  

It’s a Tuesday night but feels like a Thursday - the energy divided across five days amasses into a span of forty-eight hours.

I’ve just returned from a suit & tie dinner. I remember each step walking home, longing for security from the pinching cold October night. 

Nostalgia.

Rumi longs for the return to our reed bed. We sit in taverns, praying for a path home. 

The approaching winter, the airy minor-keys, the looming loneliness of past companionship and its letdowns. It’s melancholic.

But we need it, crave it perhaps, to remember that companionship is in fact tangible. 

- r

if you ever…

…see this,
among the trees
which fortify your monde,
against the wind
which passes its’ messages,
by the dock
where we sat with the clouds,

this will be the fire,
among the trees
which burns to embers,
against the wind
which quiets all notes,
by the dock
where we have grown distant,

for a fire’s flame originates from the fervent

- r

while the bird sits
perched high upon the branches
he looks down to see how far he has come
the site
where he perches is fragile
and at any point he can fall
back
to where he was thrown, coldly and
without remorse
if only he remembered that he had wings
this entire time

represented in silence_

distanced not forgotten
to her i turn away

to each their own
was always a little selfish

the time was now
your hand in mine
the deafening silence
and headlights dim
which oddly enough
put a spotlight on each tear
‘make your decision’

each subsequent second, our souls sifted into the abyss
vulnerable and pure i sat
lord, please
don’t make me choose
it was beautiful
it was scary
'lets get you home’

the night ate us alive
and crossroads were paved over

had i said that

- r

the box.

it arrived on his doorstep
the bell sparked wonder
as it laid on the mat
‘welcome’

eyes darting to and fro
from the way
it glistened in the sun’s rays
to the label with his name

he brought it inside
laid it gently in the closet
and shut the doors behind
him

- r

motions.

amid the chaos _
rekindles order.

among the people _
reignites chasms.

- r

to listen without fault
is a power in itself
to really focus
in order not to
it’s there
because
it is
and
i
am
too

- r

the single stem salvaged
grew at a slight slant,
the clay pot held a cup
of wet dirt from their drifting garden,
lime juice was the last aroma,
nostalgic of a home abandoned

each sweltering hour
burned permanently into memory,
trails adjacent, serving
tires and feet and tears alike
only blood to follow in succession,
the train was nothing but prayers

with the last flower in hand
nerves at the brim of rigidity
and his faith in contempt,
he lives for a land beyond
lahore


- r

droplets flood scents of
senses, and I with closed eyes
view its true being

- r

Fixed. theme by Andrew McCarthy